Criminal Zoo Page 3

  I started coughing. I fought to regain my composure. “I don’t know.” I shrugged real casual-like. And then I burped, and it was kind of loud. I was going to apologize, but I decided it might be more manly if I didn’t. “All depends. I like to live on the wild side. You know, have a little fun now and again. Can you handle that?”

  “Yeah, I can handle just about anything.” She took another drink of beer. “So I guess we should get to it, huh? You didn’t come over here to play Monopoly, right?”

  “Monopoly? Uh, no…”

  She set down her beer and dropped to the carpet, kneeling before me. She grabbed at my belt, undid it, and unzipped my jeans. All the blood rushed from my head, traveling due south.

  Starla tugged at my jeans. “Stand up.”

  I did. On shaky legs. She pulled down my pants. My boner fought for freedom from my underwear.

  “My goodness, Samuel, excited to see me?”

  My legs buckled. I fell back onto the couch.

  “You okay?” She looked up at me. “You got that pale look again. You get sick, you still gotta pay. You know that, right?”

  “Wait…what?”

  “Yeah, you’ve already taken up a little over an hour of my time.” She stared at me, her face taking on the serious look of a businesswoman.

  “I…uh…I gotta pay?”

  She stared at me, her head tilted. “Yeah, you gotta pay. I’m not free.”

  I wiped sweat from my forehead and stood. I pulled up my jeans and stared at her, still kneeling. That’s when the anger hit. More like rage. Fury from deep inside. I wanted to punch her in the head as hard as I could.

  Starla must have sensed something in my look. She jumped up and walked to her front door. She opened it and motioned for someone to come in. I heard a car door open and then slam closed. Seconds later, Greg the bartender entered. “We have a problem here?”

  Everything was happening too fast. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Shift change,” Greg answered. “I’m off now. So I decided to come over and see how my girl’s doing.”

  I looked at Starla, my mind reeling. “You’re a hooker?”

  “Hey now,” Greg jumped in. “Let’s not get nasty. She’s an escort. And she just accompanied you for the last hour, so you have to pay, cowboy.”

  My whole body shook. I clenched my fists.

  “Little buddy,” Greg said, “it looks like you’re contemplating doing something really stupid. I wouldn’t, if I were you. Just empty your pockets on top of the TV.”

  The room felt thirty degrees hotter. I swayed a little.

  “Let’s go! Get out your money!” Starla demanded.

  “Come on, buddy.” Greg stepped closer to me.

  All I wanted in the world at that exact moment was to be six inches taller and eighty pounds heavier. I would’ve beat Greg down. My hands shaking, I pulled out the wad of cash and set it on the TV. Greg scooped it up.

  “Okay, so what do we have here?” He counted it. “A hundred and ten. Is that it?”

  “It’s all I got.” I was sick to my stomach. That was all I had to my name.

  Greg handed the money to Starla. Except for one dollar. He handed it back to me. “Here, keep a dollar for yourself.”

  I could barely breathe. I wanted to hurt them so bad.

  “Hey, my friend,” Greg said, “trying to buy sex is illegal. Starla and I both saw you do it, so it’s two against one. Something to think about if you decide to go to the police. Now get the fuck outta here.”

  I never returned to Texas Jack’s.

  Honeymooning In Midland

  I met Carla not too long after the Starla incident. Carla, Starla—I know. Maybe it’s a Southern thing, because I also went to school with a Darla.

  Carla was in front of me in line at Dairy Queen. She pulled money from her jean shorts pocket and a ten-dollar bill fell to the ground. It automatically drew my attention from the whiteness of her fleshy thighs. I won’t lie, my first thought was, This girl’s about to pay for my lunch. If she didn’t notice the ten spot lying there, of course. I looked around; no one seemed to notice the bill on the ground, so I casually bent down to grab it. Just as I pulled it from the floor, Carla turned and looked down. Our eyes met and she gave me a funny look, like maybe she thought I was a dog in heat, sniffing her butt. And then her eyes moved to the money in my hand. I stood and pushed it in her direction. “Here. You dropped this.”

  She smiled. “Wow, thanks. DQ charges enough as it is. It would’ve been a serious bummer had it cost me ten dollars more.” She grabbed the money and stuffed it back into her shorts. “Can I buy you a pop for your effort?”

  “Okay. Large Coke, please.” I wasn’t sure if she was serious, but she’d asked.

  Turns out she was serious, because next thing I knew she was placing a large Coke in my hand. We ended up eating lunch together. Sure, DQ would’ve been a pretty boring answer if people asked, “So where’d you guys meet?” But I didn’t really have any friends to ask that, so it wasn’t much of a concern.

  Carla wasn’t all that pretty, but she was okay. She didn’t look like she’d been burned in a fire or anything. I think a lot of guys have probably done worse.

  If I had my choice, I would’ve taken Starla’s body over Carla’s, but I didn’t have my choice. I didn’t have enough money to afford Starla’s body. So I went with Carla. She was a little heavy—actually, she was pretty fat, but she seemed nice. At the end of our lunch together, I asked her out and she accepted. We saw each other for about six months and during that time she never acted psycho, never asked for money before we had sex, so we got married. Other than church and high school football, it’s about all there was to do in Clemensville.

  We went to a hotel in Midland for our honeymoon. Pretty exciting stuff. But it was all we could afford.

  Shortly after the Midland trip, she quit her job as a cashier at the hardware store. Her friend Irene had told her about an opening at the convenience mart, with a possible management position in the near future. A little more money now, a lot more later. That’s what Irene said, anyway. The store sat at the southern end of town, smack dab on 349. It was the last gas stop until Rankin. If it was after midnight, it was the last stop for a hundred miles, which was why the place stayed open all night. The graveyard shift was definitely not Carla’s first choice. Irene told her it would only be temporary, and that soon the two would be working together. It never happened. At least not while I was there.

  In general, Carla was all right to have around. When she wasn’t complaining, we got along just fine. But then her stomach problems started not all that long after we got married. And then the sex happened less and less. Maybe I should’ve starting paying her. When she bitched about not feeling good, and I had needs, I did my thing with magazines in the bathroom after Carla fell asleep.

  It was Carla’s complaining about how I never took her anywhere that really got on my nerves. She wanted to go to exotic places, do the vacation thing. Once, she even brought up Hawaii. All I could do was laugh. Only rich people went to Hawaii. Or the Caribbean. Don’t even get me started on places like Europe. To most in Clemensville, Europe was a fictional place, one that only existed in movies or books. I told Carla that. Not only were we not rich, we didn’t even know anyone rich, so I couldn’t seriously discuss a trip any further than Lubbock or Midland. Or I don’t know, maybe head west all the way to Hobbs, on the New Mexico–Texas state line. I hear they have good high school basketball there. But I didn’t think that would be a big draw for Carla.

  Unfortunately, landscaping didn’t pay any better than cashiering. And there was no “possible management position” anywhere in my future. So, whether Carla liked it or not, our destinations would be limited to really cheap places within driving distance, none of them worth being stuck in a stupid car for hours on end. Not on a dusty, desolat
e Texas highway baking in the middle of yet another hot summer day.

  As a kid, I had done more than my share of suffering in a car. The sun blazing above, cooking to death all things within ninety-three million miles, yellow road lines blurring beneath our oven on wheels, and time melting into oblivion. Oven on wheels—I made that up, because it was hot enough inside to cook a cake. I thought it was clever, but I never told my dad. He didn’t think anything I did or said was clever.

  Whether my dad had tried really hard, or it just came naturally, he made certain I hated every single second of our road trips.

  Inside the Oven

  “Get in the damn car!” my dad yelled. He had the same look in his eyes that he always had—pissed off. His stupid flattop haircut didn’t soften his look any. He wasn’t in the Marine Corps anymore, but he still played the part.

  He pushed me in the back, almost knocking me down. It wouldn’t have been hard to do. I was only eight. He herded me toward our two-door, teal green Toyota. Yeah, teal green. Nothing says real man like teal green. I lost my balance and landed on my knees, my jeans offering little padding against the gravel. I tried not to cry out, but it hurt.

  He grabbed me by the back of my neck, yanked me to my feet, and then spun me around. He leaned down, moved his clean-shaven face close to mine. The scent of Old Spice soured in my nose. He squeezed my shoulder hard and said, “Boy, you better get moving before I make you sorry you were ever born!”

  I fought the tears back. A show of weakness in front of my dad was like bleeding in front of a frenzied bull shark. I wondered if my grandma was watching through the window.

  We had just visited her in El Campo, Texas. Actually, she wasn’t in El Campo, but it was the closest town to her farm. Usually Mom came along, except she wasn’t with us this time. She had to work at the old folks’ home in Midland. I’m not sure what she did there, but it must not have been very much fun because she complained about it a lot. She told us to go and have a good time, and that she’d be waiting for us when we got back.

  Dad pushed me toward the car again. I wasn’t sure if he was just anxious to get home or if he was mad at me because of the accident. Like it was my fault. I couldn’t control what my cousin Jeremy did or didn’t do. And I sure as heck wasn’t the one who left the pitchfork lying in the hay.

  I knew the interior of the car was going to be unbearable as the morning grew hotter. I had no desire to get in the oven on wheels. Traveling on hot days was impossible to endure, since my dad never ran the air conditioner. “It uses up too much gas. Maybe you should quit being such a little girl like your sister and toughen up,” he always said.

  I looked at the car with dread. “It’s going to be way too hot, Dad. Why can’t I wear shorts?”

  “Short pants make you look stupid, like you’re a clown or something. If you want to look like a clown, go join the circus.”

  “But pants are too hot!”

  He rapped me hard on the top of my head with his knuckles. “Did you just raise your voice to me?”

  I stared at the ground, rubbed my head.

  He grabbed my jaw and forced my chin up. “Boy, I asked you a question. Did you raise your voice to me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Really? Must have been my imagination then, huh?”

  My eyes betrayed me, tears escaping down my cheeks.

  “You crying?”

  “No, sir.” I quickly wiped my cheeks.

  “Son of a bitch, you are crying, aren’t you? I barely touch you and you cry like a little baby.” He stared at me. “What the hell would you do if I really gave you a reason to cry?”

  My heart beat rapidly. There wasn’t a good answer to his question.

  “Don’t know?” he asked. “Let’s find out.” He slapped me hard across the face. “You like that? How about another one?” He struck me again. “Now you have a reason to cry.”

  My cheek burned like it was about to burst into flames.

  “Honestly, boy, why do you make me do that? You stupid or something?”

  I pulled up the bottom of my shirt and scrubbed my face, trying to remove the tears, along with the stinging skin.

  My dad shook his head. “I swear, Samuel, you must be retarded. Now get in the damn car before you really make me mad.”

  Through blurry eyes, I looked at the car. The oven door stood open, awaiting me. I could feel the heat radiating outward. There would be no joy in this trip. Only survival.

  I climbed inside the oven.

  Shut Up and Listen

  We drove for maybe an hour before the rain hit. Heavy and angry, like God was trying to rinse us off the road. It seems to do that in the Bible Belt.

  The radio had trouble delivering its music over the pounding of the raindrops. That was okay, because Dad listened to a mix between country and the golden oldies. Maybe we were listening to the “golden crappy country” station. Whatever it was, it sucked.

  The windshield wipers raced across the glass like they were playing tag and neither was winning. The rain got worse and my dad smacked the steering wheel with an open palm. It looked like we were driving through a swimming pool.

  “Shit! I can’t see a Goddamned thing!” He slammed on the brakes. I flew headfirst into the back of his seat. Sheila screamed just before I heard her hit the dashboard. Seatbelts weren’t important in my family. My head and neck started hurting immediately. We slid to the side of the road, coming to a complete stop. My dad spun around. “Goddamn it, Samuel, pay attention back there! Quit hitting my seat!” He turned back to the front. “Son of a bitch! How the hell are we going to get anywhere? I can’t even see the damn road!”

  Complaining of my pain wasn’t an option. I should’ve been ready for anything. Sheila, too. My dad had taken these kinds of sudden actions our whole lives.

  Sheila cried. I imagine her impact was about as jarring as mine. My father glared at her. “Don’t start with me, Sheila! I swear to God, now’s not the time! Stop that crying right now!”

  Sheila’s sobbing grew louder. Dad grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her back into her seat. “Stop crying or get the hell out of the car!”

  Sheila looked at Dad. Fear radiated from her eyes.

  Right then God must have found someone else to bully on another stretch of road, because the rain suddenly let up.

  “About damn time,” Dad said. He faced the front, stepped on the gas pedal, and lurched back onto the highway.

  We soon came to a small town. I don’t remember its name, but it had a gas station that I’ll never forget. A vending machine hung in the middle of the dirt and grime on the bathroom wall. I didn’t know what it contained for seventy-five cents, but the pictures on the front of it—naked women with black lines drawn over their chests and crotches—gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. We always stopped at that gas station during our trips to my grandma’s house. One time, I made sure I had three quarters in my pocket—stolen off my dad’s dresser a few days before the trip.

  The small package that dropped from the machine didn’t mean much. I tore it open, examined its milky white, rubber-like content, and threw it away. I would not know what a condom was until the eighth grade, and then only because I overheard some other kids talking about it.

  I stood in the bathroom a moment longer, studying the pictures of the nude women, visualizing what was underneath the black lines, and then headed back to the car. Sweat ran down my butt crack and inside my thighs.

  Sheila had not yet finished her business in the bathroom. Seriously, how did that all work? My dad stood in front of the car, his phone up to his ear. “Goddamn it!” he exclaimed, and then shoved the phone into his pocket.

  “Who’d you call, Dad?”

  He turned, glared at me. “None of your damned business!” He paused a second and then continued, “Samuel, while it’s just you and I…I know what you
did back at the haystack. And so do you.”

  “Dad, I didn’t—”

  “Shut up! Shut up and listen! You will never ever talk about it. Do you understand? You will not ever say a word about it. I swear to God, if they come after me for what you did, I’m done with you. No one better blame me because you’re my Goddamned kid. Jesus Christ, Samuel, he’s dead! Because of you, he’s fucking dead! Shit, God Almighty!”

  “But Dad, I didn’t—”

  “Stop talking. Just listen. If anyone asks, you don’t remember a thing about it. Not one damned thing. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sheila came out of the bathroom, we all climbed into the car, and Dad sprayed gravel behind us as he pulled back onto the road.

  We drove for another hour, without conversation, and arrived at a new town. Dad pulled over. “Stay here,” he ordered. He climbed from the car, slammed the door, and pulled his phone from his pocket. He hit a button and held it to his ear.

  “Who’s he trying to call?” I asked.

  “I think he’s calling Mom,” Sheila replied.

  Dad pulled the phone away from his head, screamed something, and then shoved it back into his pocket. He climbed in and didn’t speak a word as we shot onto the highway.

  So it went the whole trip. A stop here and there, a phone call, cursing the wind. I didn’t understand why he kept getting out of the car. I’d seen him talk on his phone driving all the time.

  Our speed seemed to increase in relation to each call. The foul energy coming off Dad was reason enough to match his silence. Finally the faded green sign with white print declaring Clemensville City Limits, Pop. 1,497 flew by, almost unreadable.

  Mom said she would be waiting for us when we got back. She lied. The note on the kitchen table proved it.

  Moms Don’t Lie

  Sheila walked into her room. I followed. She moved to her bed, where a second note lay. She picked it up and started reading. I tried to grab it, she pushed my hand away. Suddenly I was struck by the notion that a note awaited me on my bed. I left Sheila’s room and went to mine. I walked to the bed. Nothing. Not knocked to the floor. Not under the bed. I dropped to my hands and knees, peered under the frame. Nothing.